


Revolution and Retribution

by DJSparkles



Series: The Revolution Saga [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:41:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7642819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJSparkles/pseuds/DJSparkles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn is forced from his throne by violence and civil war rages in Gondor. Who is behind the rebellion, and how will Aragorn regain his kingdom?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Something I've had posted on fanfiction for some time... will update as often as possible.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who's read my stuff knows my favorite letters are AU...

He felt hideous.  Not only were the wounds he'd sustained in his flight severe, he'd been laid up here on Amon Sul for four nights, in autumn, with no fire. He couldn't risk detection.

 

He knew the fever was getting worse, but he still didn't dare light a fire.  Not with who knew what kind of creatures seeking him still.

 

His hands crept to the charm he still wore about his neck.  The Evenstar was dulled, tarnished. >Soon, Arwen, we will be together again,< he whispered in Elvish.

 

The attack had come unlooked for.  No warning had been given, no quarter offered.  There'd been no time even to light the beacons.  Under cover of night, the rebels had entered his home and began slaughtering his family.  No explanation, no mercy.

 

The children had been first.  He would never forget the sight of them, broken and lifeless in their beds. Nor the sight of Arwen, fighting for her life. She had been almost possessed after seeing the children; she fought like a demon, with no further regard for her own safety or even her life. Seeing her cut down had almost killed him.

 

Everything he had worked for was gone.  His family, his country, his very life, and he had no explanations.  The rebels had not offered any demands, merely went about their killing with a methodical cruelty.  He knew not what caused their discontent, what had driven them to attack him.  All he knew was that his once peaceful kingdom was now embroiled in civil war, and he had been forced to flee.

 

He couldn't go to the Shire, or Rohan, or even Rivendell, to those few Elves who had chosen to remain in Middle Earth.  Those were the first places searchers would check.  No, he'd made for the watchtower at Amon Sul, long abandoned, in ruins, but still with a clear view of the surrounding area.  The perfect defensive position.

 

Only he was no longer able to defend it.  Loss of blood and fever had combined to finally bring him down.  He could barely move, couldn't eat, couldn't even stir himself to drink some of his precious water to calm his thirst.  Now, all he could do was wait until Death took him.

 

He knew it was coming.  He could feel its stealthy approach, feel it in the numbness of his limbs, the steadily slowing beat of his heart.  He lay quiet, drifting in and out of consciousness, no longer even able to draw his cloak about him for warmth.    It would take him before dawn, he was certain.

 

There was no noise to announce an arrival, but suddenly there was a cool hand on his forehead and a soothing voice crooning reassurances to him. A warm blanket was laid over him, and he heard the sounds of someone preparing a rough and ready campsite. Not that his had been anything to be ashamed of, but certainly they knew what they were doing.

 

"I've no way to warm it, sire, but you must drink," the voice urged as he was lifted to rest against a definitely female form. "It is not poison, though you might fear that. It is a healing draught, prepared for you by Prince Faramir for when I found you." There was a cup placed to his lips and he obediently opened for it, accepting the bitter potion no matter the contents. He was parched.

 

He had no strength to thank the newcomer, though the potion definitely was beneficial. Some of the aches and pains of his wounds began to be less fearsome, muted somehow. Or was it simply Death creeping nearer? He couldn't be certain. He tried desperately to speak, but he was able to make no sound.

 

"Rest easy, sire," was the calm rejoinder from his rescuer. "I am Tanathel, a Ranger from Ithilien, sent by Prince Faramir to find you and bring you to safety. And he also bade me tell you to let the potion work. _Athelas_ works best fresh, but this was the best he could do. I've a few leaves for use when you are a bit stronger. But for now, you should sleep. I shall keep watch. Rest."

 

He could not argue. He allowed the darkness to claim him, idly wondering if he would wake still upon Middle Earth, or if he would be reunited with his beloved Arwen. Then he slept and knew no more.

 


	2. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...

Chapter Two: Trust

 

Aragorn woke near dawn, uncertain at first where he was. Then memory came flooding back, and with it a storm of raw emotion that left him weak and weary once more.

 

Tanathel stirred in her bedroll and rose quickly, moving to kneel by his side, flask in hand. "Good morning, Sire," she said quietly as she held the flask toward him. "First, drink this, and then we will decide where we might go to be safest. I do not know the area this far North."

 

Aragorn quickly swallowed the contents of the flask, grimacing at the bitterness of the draught. " _Athelas_ is indeed much better fresh," he remarked as he handed her the container. "I will find some fresh leaves on the morrow, or perhaps later today." He regarded her steadily as he attempted to gain his feet, only to find himself stuck in a seated position once more. "It appears we will be going nowhere for at least another day," he grumbled. "I am still far too weak to defend myself, and I will lay that burden on no other."

 

"That burden, as you call it, is no burden at all, my liege," Tanathel replied, her tone crisp. "It is my sworn duty, given to me by my Lord Steward Faramir, from his holdings in Ithilien. I will do my duty until my dying breath, or until my lord releases me from it. And at the moment, my lord, you are in no condition to release me from my oath."

 

Aragorn merely raised an eyebrow at her, biting down on the retort that had come to mind. She was quite right. In his current condition, he couldn't fight off a fly, much less a determined enemy.

 

"You say Faramir sent you," he began slowly. He certainly wasn't going to win any prizes at the moment for kingly behavior. Or even intelligence, for that matter. He had accepted every word she had spoken as truth, without any real evidence to back her up. "How did he know where I had fled to? I have not been gone more than seven days, if that. Not enough time to have conducted much of a search."

 

"I am nothing if not resourceful," Tanathel answered evenly. "However, you should know how I found you. You covered your tracks well, quite well. But the traces remained for someone skilled to read." An impish grin stole over her features, though it was quickly banished. "Lord Faramir had a vision, my King. He saw you here, alone, dying, not two days after the City fell to the rebels. I would have missed all trace of you if he had not headed me in the right direction. I have not the skill necessary to have picked up your trail else."

 

"You have skill to spare, if you found me here on Amon Sul. Weathertop, the locals call it, but it was once a watchtower. There are many hidden places here, any of which I could have been concealed in. Yet you came directly to my side." He gave her a long, measuring glance. "Either you have knowledge you have not spoken of, or you have a skill you do not know." His hand stole to his dagger, still at his side. "I must have proof that Faramir sent you. What can you offer me?" He kept his voice light and noncommittal, but there was an undercurrent of steel to the words.

 

Tanathel drew herself up and rose from the ground, her face composed, though her body was held rigid with anger. "If I had wished you dead, _Sire,_ I would have slit your throat as you slept," she spat angrily. "Or just let you be until Death took you, which it almost did _despite_ the draughts I provided. I most certainly would _not_ have brought word to you that your Steward remained loyal and wished you kept safe." She turned away for a moment, then turned a rueful face back toward her King. "He said you would be difficult to convince. The gauntlets you wear, they were Lord Boromir's, yes? You took them as a reminder of your oath to him as he lay dying at Amon Hen."

 

Aragorn felt his pulse quicken. Indeed, he and Faramir had discussed this very topic as a possible pass-phrase if the worst happened. He gazed into the middle distance, carefully avoiding her too sharp eyes. "I did indeed. Tell me, what passed between Boromir and myself?" Only Faramir had truly known the words passed between Aragorn and Boromir in those final moments, and then, only because he had seen it in a vision, long after the fact, and questioned Aragorn about the truth of the matter.

 

_Flashback:_

 

_Boromir had been pierced by many arrows and was dying when Aragorn had knelt by his side. All his strength was being used to get a final message out, a final warning. "They took the little ones."_

 

_Aragorn had tried to have him conserve his strength, but Boromir would have none of it. "Frodo. Where is Frodo?"_

 

_"I let Frodo go."_

 

_"Then you did what I could not." The words were spoken around a rill of blood that had begun to seep from Boromir's mouth, and Aragorn had known there was no more time for Boromir. "I tried to take the Ring from him."_

 

_"The Ring is beyond our reach now."_

 

_"Forgive me." Again the blood flowed, sluggishly, but still draining away the warrior's life, drop by drop from each wound. "I did not see it. I have failed you all."_

 

_"No, Boromir. You fought bravely. You have kept your honor." Aragorn moved to pull one of the arrows from its resting place in Boromir's chest and Boromir's hand stayed his own._

 

_"Leave it," he murmured. "It is over. The world of Men will fall. And all will come to darkness…and my city to ruin."_

 

_That had been the breaking point for Aragorn. Tears welled in his eyes at the nobility if the man dying at his side, a man he had only lately begun to think of as a friend. "I do not know what strength is in my blood," he began, desperately trying to return hope to the warrior, "but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall… nor our people fail."_

 

_"Our people," he returned, his breathing becoming more labored. "Our people." Boromir looked hopeful again for one brief second as his hand searched for something. Aragorn placed the hilt of his sword in the questing hand, knowing what his friend would wish, now. He had stood firmly behind Aragorn's claim since Lothlorien, though the Ring had attempted to seduce him away from that path, and nearly succeeded._

 

_Boromir's breath began to hitch slightly as he pulled the hilt to his chest and faced Aragorn squarely, knowledge of his death still in his eyes, alongside a new-kindled hope that perhaps, this Ranger from the North would be able to do the impossible and reclaim the throne of Gondor. "I would have followed you, my brother." Words were becoming more and more difficult. "My captain." A swallow to clear his throat. "My King." A few more slight breaths, and he was gone._

 

_Aragorn had wept for the loss of his friend, his brother-in-arms. Pressing a kiss to Boromir's brow had bought him valuable time to compose himself, yet he was still weeping when he spoke the final words. "Be at peace, Son of Gondor."_

 

_He had risen, and swiftly he and his companions had arrayed the noble warrior for burial, using one of the Elven boats they had been gifted with, and Aragorn had claimed the vambraces from Boromir's arms before they had sent Boromir over the Falls of Rauros with much reverence. These would serve as a reminder to him what he had promised, and what he owed to his people. It was at that moment that he knew he must return to Gondor. He had wavered a few times afterward, but always the vambraces had reminded him of the debt he owed Boromir, and of his destiny as the King of the West._

 

Tanathel had recited, word for word, the sequence of events at Amon Hen as Aragorn had given them to Faramir. Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief and smiled slightly. "It affects you as well," he murmured.

 

Tanathel turned red-rimmed eyes to him. "Aye, my lord, it affects me greatly to know Lord Boromir died with his honor intact. That was always important to him." She stiffened once more, glaring at Aragorn, almost daring him to distrust her further. "Have I satisfied your questions, Sire?"

 

Aragorn was able to rise, finally, and touched her arm lightly. "You have, Tanathel. You are impertinent, disrespectful, and utterly rude, but I find that refreshing at the moment." He grinned. "All things a Ranger should be. Come, I will show you where we might make a fire and be more comfortable. Then we have many things to plan."

 


	3. Spellbound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! *mwahahahha*
> 
> my hive sisters totally rock!

Chapter Three: Spellbound

 

He was cold.

 

He had been cold since he had fallen at Amon Hen, but something had held him here in the chill. He neither felt, truly, nor saw, nor tasted, heard, or touched. But he was aware.

 

Aware enough to know that this was _not_ as it should be. He should have passed into the company of his ancestors long since. After all, he was dead… yet he remained in this lifeless limbo.

 

He 'felt' sometime pulling at him, and 'turned' to follow the tug. All was black in this place, but he still had a sense of direction, though he could not see. He longed for a last glimpse of his brother, but it was not to be.

 

He followed the sensation to its conclusion, but something else replaced it almost instantly.

 

Pain. He heard a voice crying out, screaming at the horrible agonies it was enduring, and barely recognized it as his own. How could he be screaming when he was dead? How could he feel pain when dead? What was happening to him? Was this his punishment, then, for trying to gain the Ring from Frodo? Had Sauron triumphed in the end? Was that why all was darkness?

 

Chanting began to make itself heard somewhere above his head. His head? He shouldn't be able to feel his head! He was a disembodied spirit!

 

"Come to me, now, Boromir! Open your eyes, see what I have wrought! See how you live, hale and whole! See who has brought you back from the abyss!" Then the chanting continued, in a language Boromir had never heard, nor, truth to tell, did he ever wish to hear again.

 

His eyes opened of their own accord and he shivered convulsively. Isengard!

 

Many changes had been made since the last time he had beheld it, but it was still unmistakable to his gaze. As was Saruman, older and more withered than before, but still exuding an aura of power as he had always done.

 

Boromir tried to look about him, but his body would not yet obey his commands. His lips formed words, but no sound emerged.

 

"Yes, I see you understand," Saruman crooned as he laid one withered hand against Boromir's pale cheek. "I have beaten back Death for you, my Lord Boromir, and you shall serve me as payment."

 

Something snapped into place inside his head and suddenly Boromir was able to move. Still he had no control over his voice, though, and so was unable to tell the wizard exactly what he could do with his demand for service! Never would he betray his people! The Orcs that had come upon them at Amon Hen had been wearing the White hand of Saruman, that much he knew. They had been doing his bidding, which labeled him a threat to Gondor. Never would he serve this foul creature from the depths!

 

He threw himself to his feet, automatically reaching out to strangle the wizard, but found that his hand stopped some inches short of the target and would go no further. He cursed long and loudly in his mind.

 

"You see? You cannot harm me, Man of the West. You will do my will." Saruman took a step backward with a small crooked smile. "Grima!" he called, and Wormtongue slithered into view. "Take him and outfit him in my livery. Then, bring him to the Tower, that I may show him his beloved White City."

 

Grima nodded and scurried to do his master's bidding. "Come, now, Boromir, you mustn't keep him waiting," he hissed as he led the way into the armory. Boromir still could not speak, but nodded to show he understood, though inwardly he was seething. No more would he wear the livery of Orthanc than he would wear that of Mordor itself! His loyalties would always lie with Gondor!

 

They climbed the steps to the Tower shortly after, and Boromir gasped at the changes wrought outside the great Tower of Orthanc. No more did the trees surround and protect Isengard. Now, it was a seething pit of mud and ash.

 

Much had been flooded, it was obvious, but the damage was being repaired. It was slow going, but the Orcs that crawled and scurried through the muck seemed to have things moving along.

 

Boromir nearly flinched at the sight of the massive Uruk-hai. Those creatures it had been, one in particular, that had stolen away his little ones, indeed, his very life! He could not abide the thought of being forced to work alongside them.

 

"Come, Boromir, come to my side," Saruman purred as he indicated a glowing pool in front of him. "Come, and we will see what has transpired in your beloved City."

 

The glow faded as he stepped nearer, and then the clear water revealed the city of Minas Tirith, though not at all the way Boromir remembered it. Bodies lay everywhere, left to rot where they had fallen. The Citadel itself was unharmed, but all the rest of the City was in ruins. He would have cried out at the massacre had he voice to do so. Tears welled up in his eyes at the thought that he had failed, utterly. His City had fallen.

 

Aragorn. Aragorn had sworn to him that the White City would not fall.

 

He had lied.

 

In that moment, Boromir's grief knew no bounds. With his voice finally rediscovered, he gave a great cry of grief and horror, falling to his knees. Aragorn had either failed, or…

 

…or he had taken the Ring for himself and set himself up as Sauron's replacement. Boromir knew how quickly, how subtly the Ring could take hold of one's mind. If it had taken Aragorn…

 

He turned wet eyes to Saruman, firmly pulling his emotions into tight control. "How do I know what you show me is truth," he finally managed to grind out. "You have deceived many before me. I must know."

 

Saruman merely nodded toward the scene in the water. It had changed again, now showing the bodies of the Royal Family in their final places. The only one missing was Aragorn. "The rebels slew his family and would have slain him as well, had he not fled," he explained patiently. His voice, Boromir remembered his voice was dangerous, but he could discern no falsehood in the words. "He has been a harsh, cruel ruler, and the people of Minas Tirith rose against him. He has lost all that gave him meaning, but he must still be stopped. If he remains free, he shall raise an army and return." The scene switched again, showing Faramir imprisoned with… was that Eowyn of Rohan? It must surely be… and being 'questioned' most vigorously about his King's whereabouts.

 

Faramir. Faramir held true to his loyalty to the King, saying nothing, fighting to keep his pain inside. Faramir would not be fooled so easily. Saruman must be lying! But this would have to be handled carefully. If the wizard even suspected that Boromir was not firmly under his sway, there would be the devil to pay, and all his work would go for naught.

 

Saruman put a comforting hand on Boromir's shoulder, and he had to fight back the urge to throw it from him. Instead, he let the tears flow once more. "What must I do?" he choked out. He must be free to work his way to his King and find the truth! And the only way he would leave Isengard, he was certain, was to either swear allegiance to the wizard or to die again. And having regained his life, by whatever means, he was not going to throw it away again! He _would_ find the truth!

 

 


	4. Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU. Hopefully y'all are enjoying this story.

Chapter Four: Old Friends

 

Aragorn nodded over to the Ranger across from him. "Again," he demanded. "What strength have we, what _loyal_ troops can we count on? Have we any at all?"

 

"We could not tell before I left Minas Tirith, sire," Tanathel snapped back. "As I've told you a thousand times, now." She threw her hands into the air in the ageless symbolism of 'I give up!' "And don't you dare throw rank at me, you arrogant, overbearing, pigheaded, ridiculous excuse for a Ranger! _How_ you claimed the throne is beyond me. You may be Isildur's Heir, but you have no business being allowed out without a keeper!"

 

"That will be quite enough!" Aragorn returned forcefully. "I did not want the throne. I _never_ wanted the throne. But by all I hold dear, all I _held_ dear, and all the blood shed to destroy Sauron and bring peace to Gondor, I _will_ reclaim it!" He was on his feet, his breathing steady, but he felt as though he had run a race.

 

It did _not_ help his confidence any to realize he had fallen neatly into the trap she had closed about him. Tanathel was smiling widely, indicating she had expected as much.

 

"He was right, it does do to wind you up occasionally," she said with a laugh as she extended her hand in apology. "Captain Faramir mentioned that you might sometimes lose sight of what you were working toward. Not a flaw, mind you, just that you needed reminding."

 

"Faramir is a shrewd officer, and an even better Steward. I only hope he survives this madness that has taken hold. Your horse is below?" At her nod he grinned. "Think you I came all this way on foot?"

 

She shook her head. "It would be impossible, even for you. It was unbelievable that you had covered so much ground in only three days, searching for the hobbits. From Amon Hen to Fangorn Forest is a stretch of the imagination, but you proved your mettle there. But from Minas Tirith to Amon Sul in seven days? Absolutely impossible on foot."

 

He clapped her on the shoulder. "You've intelligence to spare, Tanathel. Come. I'll introduce you to Brego, and we will ride tonight for Bree. It is not far. And the only thing you need fear in Bree is a forgetful Innkeeper who will keep his silence for the protection I have given him in the past. From there, we can summon some friends who will help us unobtrusively." Unobtrusive wasn't exactly the word he would use for Peregrine Took, but he knew the Hobbit was loyal to him, he and Merry as well. Merry could head for Rohan with no one the wiser why he went, as he was still regarded as a Rohirrim. Holdwine of the Mark could visit his friends in the Riddermark without being questioned about his motives. And Pippin, bless him, was still sworn to service in the Citadel. He'd be recalled as soon as things were sorted out in the White City, and Aragorn would have someone on the inside. Pippin could dissemble with the best of them. And of course, Sam's help would be considerable as well.

 

"Bree? Quaint name," Tanathel replied quietly. "The names here in the North are all strange to me, but… Bree? It doesn't sound likely to give us much aid."

 

"Not in Bree, no, unless you count being hidden well as aid. No, our aid will come from the Shire."

 

"Shire? Another strange name, though one I have heard before. You intend to recall those left of the Fellowship then?"

 

"Aye, and they will rally to my side." Aragorn waited for her to retrieve her mount, then whistled for Brego, who came running up and slid to a stop, as though expecting more action and disappointed to find only Aragorn and Tanathel waiting.

 

_"Hannon lle, mellon-nin,"_ Aragorn spoke to the steed. No one in Rohan could tame him, yet the Ranger from the North had done so. He swung himself astride with neither bridle nor saddle and Tanathel marveled at how well the horse responded to him. She had heard tales of the beast, most everyone had. How he tolerated Aragorn and no other to ride him, and how he shunned the security of the stables in favor of running free over the Pelennor.

 

"Do you always ride without harness?" she asked him, real concern in her voice.

 

"Only with Brego," he replied evenly. "Now, we must make for Bree." Unbidden, his mind took him back to his Ranger days. Those first days with the Hobbits, he had wondered if he would go mad from the sheer joyfulness of them. Then he had come to look forward to their antics as a way of holding to hope, when all hope seemed gone. He needed that now, more than ever he had needed it on the Quest. He needed to know that life would go on, that he could still help his people.

 

Bree was much the same as it had ever been, to his relief. The _Prancing Pony_ seemed to be doing a flourishing trade, and he called a halt before the stable yard. Only then did Tanathel realize that her King had discarded his finery in favor of his leathers, and had begun to take on a rather unkempt look. It would be a good disguise, she knew, but the change startled her. It was as if she were watching him turn into another person entirely, though he still had an air of command about him.

 

Strider, he was now, and he kept it firmly in mind as he arranged stabling for the horses and gestured for Tanathel to accompany him inside. A calm word to Brego ensured his behavior, and they were able to step into the taproom with little or no fuss.

 

The Innkeeper bustled up to them, his smile broad. "Well, now, sir and lady, if you're looking for accommodations, I've a few rooms yet available. Nice and airy, they are, with windows open on the West."

 

Strider lowered his hood, facing the Innkeeper squarely, and was pleased to find his face at least remembered. "Well, that won't do for Strider, surely!" he exclaimed. "I've your old room ready, if that's more to your liking, and can find one for the lady as well, nearby if you like, and no questions asked."

 

"That would be best, sir," Strider answered calmly as he scanned the room. "Next door, if you can arrange that for the lady, and food for two. We've been on the road for days." An exaggeration, but it would establish that Strider and the King were not the same man. "Whatever is in the pot, Butterbur, you know I am not too particular."

 

As the man scurried to do his bidding, Tanathel rounded on Strider. "I should be in the same room!" she hissed angrily. "How am I to protect you from a different room?"

 

"There will be no trouble here, Tanathel, trust me on this. Come, we will see our rooms and then take a place on the edges of this company, to see what news there is of Gondor." He shouldered past her and headed up the stairway. She followed, still stinging from what she saw as his rejection of her protection.

 

He closed the door firmly behind her as she entered and rounded on her. "Have you no thought for your reputation, woman?" he began as he unfastened his gauntlets. "That you and I are together here as Rangers does not automatically make you my shield mate. Would you prefer to be thought of that way?"

 

Hot blood flooded her face and she stammered something too garbled to understand, and he nodded. "As I thought. Food will be here shortly, if I know Butterbur at all, and then you will go to your own rooms to sleep when we come back up from the common room. And that is _not_ a request."

 

She nodded crisply, used to following orders. They ate quietly when the food was brought, though Tanathel thought to praise the ale, which was beyond anything she had tasted before, but one look from Strider not only quelled her enthusiasm for the drink, but her desire for more. So she remained silent, wondering what plans he was making in that devious mind of his.

 

He donned his cloak once more, and she followed suit, and they headed for the back stair to the common room. All at once, Strider stiffened and stopped dead in his tracks, listening.

 

Tanathel heard nothing save voices raised in a drinking song she had not heard before.

 

Oh you can search far and wide

You can drink the whole town dry

But you'll never find a beer so brown

As the one we drink in our hometown

You can drink your fancy ales

You can drink 'em by the flagon

But the only brew for the brave and true

Comes from the Green Dragon!

 

Strider stood still, barely controlling his mirth. The sheer audacity of those two, praising another Inn while inside the _Pony_ , it could only be Merry and Pippin and from the sounds of things, they were well into their cups already. He needed to find a way to bring them out of the room unobtrusively.

 

Tanathel slipped away unnoticed by Strider and made for the other side of the common room, finding a table and settling herself at it, her hood drawn low so not to be noticed. It didn't matter if someone saw the Ranger garb, they had seen it before and she had purposely removed any indication of what land she called home. Who knew how far this plot reached?

 

She had been quite willing to distrust his friends, as well, but from what she was seeing from the two Little Folk, it would take years and years of training in subterfuge and deception to keep them from spilling everything they had been told over a flagon of ale. They had an air of… not quite innocence, exactly, but rather, loyalty. Trustworthiness, for lack of a better word.

 

Strider settled in beside her, pipe in use and she wished for some pipeweed of her own, as well as her pipe, far away in Ithilien. "They must have known we were coming," he said softly. "That is the same song they sang at Edoras, when we returned from the battle at Helm's Deep. It is a way of showing their support, only quite subtle. They've been learning." He couldn't quite stifle the grin the thought gave him. Subtlety was never one of the duo's strong points. They must have been coached on this.

 

Merry staggered slightly, feigning much more drunkenness than he actually felt, and managed to bump Pippin, who had practically a full pint which spilled down his front. "Steady on, Merry! Seems I'm destined to forever lose half my beer when I come to the _Pony!"_

 

Merry got just a bit closer, as though he needed help standing. "In the corner, Pippin, you twit!" he hissed. "If that's not him, I'm an Ent." A little louder, he announced, "You'll have to help me to our rooms, Peregrin-me-lad, and ye can change yer shirt whilst we're up there. Come on, then, let's have a bit o' support, here!"

 

The duo went up the stairs, leaning on each other crazily, and Strider moved to follow. Tanathel didn't quite scurry after him, but she was hard pressed to keep up, though her legs were almost as long as his. They closed the door to Strider's room with a little more force than was necessary and waited.

 

They waited for nothing. Tanathel whirled, blade in hand, when a voice from behind them piped up, in typical Hobbit fashion. "Well, now, it took ye long enough. What's to be done, then, Strider? Or should I say, King Elessar?"

 

 


	5. Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad y'all are enjoying this!

"Now just hold on a minute!" Merry barked as he swiftly countered Tanathel's move with a chair. "We're here to help!" A sudden jerk of the wrist and the legs of the chair had neatly disarmed the startled Ranger. Pippin grabbed the sword as it flew away and pulled it behind Strider, and Merry pinned Tanathel to the wall with the chair. "Now, if we could just get a word in, lady, you would see that we came here, if not completely unarmed, at least with no intent to cause harm to Strider." He held the chair firmly in place, though the woman would have been able to make quick work of him had she been able to get her hands free. They were pinned neatly between the slats of the little wooden chair and the wall.

 

Strider collapsed onto the bed frame, struggling to control the laughter that threatened and failing miserably. He was forcefully reminded of the scene in Hollin where the terrible two had neatly tripped up Boromir, rendering him flat on his back and unarmed within seconds, and had then proceeded to give Aragorn the same treatment when he attempted to separate them. He rolled backward, holding his belly against the torture of laughter, then went suddenly silent and solemn as his fingers closed about the charm he always wore at his neck.

 

Merry and Pippin noted the change, as did Tanathel, and by unspoken agreement they ceased their antics and closed in about Strider, offering support and comfort in the only way they knew how.

 

Hobbits being very tactile creatures, they enfolded the grieving man in tight embraces, Pippin stroking his hair lightly and crooning some nonsensical song about cares vanishing into the mist. Merry simply held Aragorn, his eyes closed tightly against the pain he felt coming from his friend.

 

Tanathel withdrew to the far side of the room, settling herself in a chair by the fire and regarding the flames silently, wishing for a pipe. These Hobbits were amazing creatures, she mused. From laughter to sorrow in the space of a breath, yet somehow remaining quite untouched by either. Their quiet strength permeated the room as they consoled their friend.

 

Silence reigned until a discreet knock was heard at the door. Tanathel quickly went to the doorway, setting herself ready beside it in case of trouble, and the Hobbits made themselves scarce, keeping out of sight behind the bed. Aragorn nodded slightly to Tanathel, who threw the door wide and grabbed for their unexpected guest, only to find herself holding open air as the new arrival easily sidestepped her and moved into the room. She closed the door quickly, blocking the exit, her hand on the dagger in her belt, waiting for a sign from her lord.

 

The hooded figure regarded her steadily, but she could see no trace of the face beneath the hood. It was unnerving to say the least, and she felt her grip tightening on the hilt of her weapon as it turned away from her to approach Strider.

 

She was moving closer to the stranger, determined not to risk her King, when Strider's upraised hand halted her in her tracks. She waited, tense, almost quivering, while he looked the stranger up and down.

 

An eternity of a moment later, the hood was thrown back and Strider rose to embrace his friend. _"Mae Govannen, Legolas,_ " he murmured softly. "Dare I hope you have brought others?"

 

"I came to fetch you to them," Legolas Greenleaf replied evenly as he took in his friend's haggard appearance. "I have news. You are being hunted, Aragorn. A company of Uruk-hai was seen leaving Isengard two days past, with a Man at the head of their column. I know not who he is, but he wears the livery of the White Hand, and the Uruks obey his every command." He placed a gentle hand on Aragorn's forearm. "Come, be at peace for a time. None shall find you in Eryn Lasgalen, the Greenwood that is my home. And from there, we can begin plans to restore you to your throne."

 

"We have already begun," Aragorn said simply as he gestured to Tanathel. "Merry, Pippin, you know what to do."

 

"Oh, aye, we do," Pippin burst out quickly. "I've been recalled, just as you might expect. Probably want to find out how loyal I am to ye, Sire. Instructions?"

 

"Do just as we planned, the last time we discussed the possibility. The _remote_ possibility, I believe you mentioned." Aragorn nodded his head toward the Hobbit, his eyes shadowed. "Take no action to suggest that you are anything but loyal to your post. Whoever is holding the strings will order you as I have, Peregrin, Guard of the Citadel. The deception must hold. You must appear loyal to the uniform and not the man."

 

"And I've my pony in the stables, being loaded with provisions for a trip to Rohan. My gear is in my room here, with Pip's. I'm off for my yearly tour at first light. And while I'm there, I can have a discreet word with Eomer, see what he's heard. Might even be able to rally a few troops to patrol along the border." Merry gave Aragorn a wink.

 

"Good. Tanathel, I have a special errand for you." She brought herself to attention, a bit overwhelmed by the fact that it seemed everything had been planned out well in advance of the actual rebellion. "First, you must see Sam in Hobbiton. From there ---"

 

"Sam's given us a bit of a message for ye, Aragorn," Pippin broke in quickly. "He says to tell you civil war in Gondor is ridiculous, and he'll keep his ear to the ground. He also said he's arranged to have some of the more adventurous youngsters listening for rumors and gossip, and will send word with one of them if there's any hint of who's behind this."

 

"Saruman." Tanathel's voice was flat and cold. "If he has sent out a troop to track the King, then _he_ is the power behind this."

 

"I was getting to that," Pippin said quickly, trying not to snap. "Sam says that he'll send word with one of the young'uns whenever he hears anything to do with Saruman, or whatever is happening in Gondor. He also said, and we've thought this for a bit now, that it's time the Shirefolk took notice of things beyond their own borders. What threatens the world outside our borders, soon enough will threaten us. And if a small few of us can keep the rest in blissful ignorance, it's a small price to pay."

 

Aragorn smiled grimly. "Then do what you must. Tanathel, I must ask you to undertake a dangerous journey. I will not order you to do this. I cannot in good conscience do so. Nevertheless, I must ask."

 

Tanathel stiffened her stance and gave him her full parade ground attention. "I am a Ranger of Ithilien, my lord, and sworn to your service. What are your orders, sir?"

 


	6. Tangled Webs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More intrigue...
> 
> Many thanks to my hive sisters!

The Northern Wilds

 

Boromir signaled his troop to a stop and reined in his mount, eyes searching. Surely Aragorn would have gone to ground somewhere near here. Rivendell had been his home for a time, as had the Wilds of the North. Somewhere between, the man would have sought shelter.

 

Boromir thought back upon what Saruman had seen fit to tell him about his quarry. Wounded, desperate, Aragorn had taken a headlong flight North. His trail had gone cold, however, and nothing had been seen or heard of him. It was as if he had vanished into the mists.

 

Not for the first time did Boromir wish he could speak with his brother. Faramir was the better tracker of the two, of course, but that was not the only reason. Why, _why_ had Aragorn run roughshod over the very people he had sworn to protect? It made no sense to Boromir, and he cared little for nonsense.

 

He kept his mind on the scene Saruman had shown him in the water. He did not think the wizard had intended for him to see Faramir imprisoned, for the focus had shifted quickly away. And everything the wizard had shown him, had said to him, smacked of falsehood. Everything in him, in his very being, was crying out against what he had been told.

 

Boromir had been a soldier long enough to trust his gut. And his gut instinct was telling him he was being used, and badly. The fact that he was leading a company of Uruk-hai alone would attest to that fact.

 

"Why have we stopped?" one of the Uruks demanded. Boromir glared down at him from the saddle.

 

"Because I wish to stop for a moment. I am trying to think like our quarry." He gazed across the field for a moment and his gaze stopped at a distant hill. "Amon Sul," he breathed.

 

He wheeled his horse to face his 'men' and glared at them. "This is not a killing mission," he said slowly, his voice hard. "We are to take him alive and unharmed at all costs. Those are our orders from Saruman. Alive and unharmed." He turned again, his eyes on the distant ruins of the watchtower, his mind whirling with possibilities. "Move out!"

 

Outside The Prancing Pony, Bree

 

Tanathel slipped into the stable yard, her heart pounding, though her passage made no sound whatsoever. Soft and silent as a shadow she was, blending in with the nightly noises and darkness.

 

Her horse she harnessed quickly and furtively, and she led the stallion into the darkness behind the stable, stopping for a bare moment to wrap some purloined fabric around his hooves, to muffle the sound of her departure. She must not be missed until it was too late.

 

Once astride, she urged the bay stallion into an easy lope, not pushing him yet, waiting for the moment when speed would be all that stood between her and certain death. Then, when she had put enough distance between herself and the sleeping people of Bree, she reined to a stop and looked down into her hand.

 

In her open palm lay a charm, the glisten of metal utterly spent, tarnished and lifeless.

 

The Evenstar.

 

Inside the Prancing Pony, Bree

 

"Has she gone?"

 

Aragorn nodded, his face grim. "Aye, she's clear." He turned to his companions, his heart heavy. "Let us hope she succeeds. I have no wish to have sent her to death."

 

Pippin had brought his gear from his room, as had Merry, and both were finishing their travel outfits. Pippin had once more donned the Black and Silver of the Tower Guard of Gondor, and Merry arrayed in the armor gifted him by Eomer-King of Rohan, after the Ring War. Both could have looked utterly ridiculous, being Hobbits, but instead they looked rather dangerous, and perfectly capable of protecting themselves.

 

Pippin turned to Aragorn, his own expression hard. "She knew the risks, and she accepted them. You didn't order her to go. She went of her own will. You didn't send her anywhere."

 

Merry stepped up as well. "Quit being such a ninny! You're the King, Aragorn. It's time you stopped hiding in the shadows and started acting like it! It isn't like you to be so bloody indecisive. What's happened to you?"

 

"What's happened to me?" Aragorn almost couldn't believe the question. "I have had _everything_ that gave my life meaning stolen from me!" he hissed, fury in every syllable. "My wife, the one woman I fought for, waited for, almost died for, is dead, _murdered_ for a parcel of land! My children, my _innocent_ children, were _slaughtered_ in their beds for the sole reason that they were _mine._ Tell me, Master Brandybuck, how would that affect you? Would you be the same man, had that happened to you? Would you be willing to send those you are responsible for to torture and death without a qualm? If you say yes, you are a liar. But until you can answer yes and _mean_ it, keep silent about the change in me!"

 

Merry was suitably abashed, but Aragorn took pity on his friend and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Forgive me, my friend, that was unforgivably cruel. I would wish this on no other. But I give you my oath, Merry, that those responsible for this will be found and brought to justice."

 

Pippin shrugged his travel cloak on and grinned to Aragorn, though sorrow still showed in his eyes. "We'll start on that now, Strider," he said quietly as he grasped the door fastener. "I'm off, and Merry will follow in about an hour. We've both orders to go, so no one will remark on it. But I'd suggest you and Legolas be gone as soon as possible."

 

He was gone before Aragorn could form an answer, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Legolas stepped forward to stand behind Aragorn, one hand on his friend's shoulder in reassurance.

 

Merry clicked his tongue. "Nothing to forgive, Strider," he remarked softly, but couldn't meet the King's eyes. "And Pip's right. Who knows who might be watching? Elves aren't exactly common sights any more. If anyone saw his Majesty here, you could be in a world of hurt. You can't trust anyone."

 

"Even you?" Aragorn replied, a twinkle in his eye as he tipped Merry's face up. "Your point is taken, my friend, and we will take care. As soon as you are safely off toward Edoras we will disappear."

 

Merry stopped just short of stamping his foot, but then grinned. "You'd better. That's all I'll say."

 

Minas Tirith

 

Faramir hung motionless from his chains, the occasional soft moan the only indication that he yet lived. Blood dripped in slow rivulets from the lashes on his bare back.

 

"He has told us nothing, my lord," the inquisitor said with a bow.

 

Saruman strode forward and grasped Faramir by the hair, dragging his face upward. "Where has he gone, Steward?" he demanded, his voice strong yet a subtle note of reassurance could be heard. "All you must do is give me Elessar's hiding place, and I will have the Healers tend your wounds. Come now, Faramir, you know I regret bringing you harm. Tell me what I wish and you will be set free and healed."

 

Faramir managed to open one eye and glared at the wizard. "I will tell you nothing," he ground out between clenched teeth. "Especially as I have no knowledge of his position now. Nor do I know if he yet lives."

 

"Oh, Faramir, Faramir," Saruman cajoled. "Surely you can do better than that. Come now, tell us where he is and you can go free." His voice turned deadly. "Or, we could see how your loving wife fares under Grima's care."

 

Faramir strained at his manacles, almost managing to move forward an inch or so, striving to get his hands on the wizard, and Saruman allowed the tiniest of smiles to cross his lips. "It touches a nerve, does it not? The idea that another man might have your wife. That another man could possibly take her from you? Well, we shall see." He signaled Grima forward.

 

"Saruman! By all I hold dear, you shall pay for this!" Faramir raged as Grima unlocked the door to Eowyn's cell and dragged her forward. She was bruised and battered, but remained unbowed, her chin held up defiantly.

 

"Do not waste your fury on him, my lord," Eowyn snapped, and Grima backhanded her, sending her to the floor. She lay still and silent and Grima gathered her up and departed with her.

 

Faramir cursed them, struggling futilely with his chains, and continued long after the door to the room had been closed and barred, leaving him alone.

 

 


	7. Deceptions

Amon Sul

 

Boromir had dismounted and moved up the side of Amon Sul alone, not wishing the Uruks to spoil any traces that might have been left for him to read. Again he cursed the fact that Faramir was not with him. His 'Puss' could read a trail left by an ant, whereas Boromir was not very adept at tracking. His skill lay with his blade and shield.

 

These signs were so open a blind man could have read them, however. What had Aragorn been thinking? He would no more have left such an obvious campsite to be found than he would have taken the Ring from Frodo.

 

Boromir knelt by the remains of the camp, his mind whirling with possibilities. He, like his brother, had been able to read men's hearts quite well. It was a necessary skill in the military. It let you know just whom you could trust.

 

Aragorn had sworn that he'd let Frodo go. If he had, if he had spoken the truth to Boromir, then the Ring had not gone to Gondor. A few other hints and slips he'd heard among the Uruks had confirmed his guess, as well. Aragorn had not lied to him. The Ring had been destroyed, as it was meant to be.

 

Which left him in a rather awkward predicament. How could he help his King while the wizard controlled him? He had tried once to break Saruman's hold on him, and the result was agonizingly clear.

 

A sound nearby drew his attention and he stood quickly, keeping silent and searching the darkness for signs. Hoof beats; one rider, and the sound was muffled, making the direction hard to discern.

 

Aragorn had not been alone at this site. The signs were plentiful, and the discarded remnants of his Kingly garb had not been hidden well enough to avoid discovery.

 

It still puzzled him, though. The man he knew, the one he had journeyed with from Rivendell, would never have been so careless. Unless…

 

Boromir went back to join his company and remounted, preferring not to answer the Uruks' demands for information. Silently, he signaled them to move out, and indicated the direction. He would pursue this mysterious rider, who traveled with muffled hooves. At the very least, the quarry would have an interesting tale to tell, for the need of stealth was not so great as it had been before the Ring War. If it was Aragorn, so much the better.

 

South of Bree

 

Tanathel reined in and halted, uncertain. The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling, and she had soldiered for too long to ignore such a clear warning from her senses. Someone was following her.

 

A hoarse cry on her right startled her, and she wheeled the stallion about, searching for the cause. He pranced restlessly under her, and she managed one moment to pat his neck reassuringly. "Easy, Dancer," she murmured as her eyes swept the trees. "There will be time enough for speed soon. Very soon."

 

She saw nothing in the trees, but the feeling of being watched would not leave her. She forced herself to appear calm, though her heart was hammering in her chest. Slowly, she turned her mount again toward the faraway city of Minas Tirith. Her fingers shook, and she fought to still them.

 

With an explosion of sound, Uruks poured from the trees and she gathered herself, bringing her blade into play almost without thought. Hacking and slicing she had almost won through when another rider appeared on the road before her. More Uruks followed him and surrounded her, dragging her from her horse and pummeling her with their heavy fists.

 

Why weren't they using their weapons? She couldn't spare a moment's thought for the question. She lost her sword in the melee and pulled her dagger, bloodying the next few Uruks who came near, giving them pause. She was still surrounded, but they were keeping their distance now.

 

The rider closed with them and the Uruks reluctantly gave way to allow him into the circle. Tanathel was bruised and blood ran down her forearm from where one of the foul creatures had raked her with its nails, but her grip on the dagger was firm and she glared at the newcomer, daring him to move closer.

 

The man dismounted, the moonlight glinting on the device on his chest, and she drew in a deep breath. The White Hand! So this was the troop that had been following her King! Perhaps there were answers to be found here, though she had little hope of escaping to deliver them. Still, her King was depending on her, and she would not fail him.

 

Steel clearing leather drew her attention back to the man and she forced herself to take several deep, calming breaths. If he attacked her now, she might be able to land a few strikes, but she was certain she would not be able to beat him. Not with her only using the dagger. His sword gave him more than double the reach of her blade, and she had no illusions. She was good but not that good. Still, she must not be taken easily. She would mark him before the end.

 

"Drop your weapon and you'll not be harmed," the man ordered her, and she went quite still. She had heard that voice before, oh, yes. Everyone in Gondor knew that voice. Or at least, those born before the Ring War.

 

The dagger dropped from suddenly trembling fingers and she shivered. How could this be? Boromir was dead, had fallen during the Quest. It had to be a trick! "Who are you?" she demanded. "How dare you attack me? I am on an errand that will brook no delay!"

 

"Your errand, sad to say, is being delayed. Give me your name, Ranger, and tell me of this errand." Yes, that was indeed the voice of Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor's armies. Her mind began to whirl. It was impossible! But --- if he *were* here, wearing the livery of Orthanc --- Valar, Saruman was much more powerful than they had realized! The King must be warned!

 

She stood still, her body stiff, as he approached her. "Why will you not speak?" Boromir asked softly as he neared her, his voice nevertheless carrying across the clearing. "You should. My… company… enjoys the companionship of women."

 

Tanathel was sure she heard a hint of disgust in his voice. "I am on an errand to Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Lord Steward of Gondor," she spat. "Delay me no further!" The breeze had freshened and she welcomed it on her damp skin. What was going on?

 

"Indeed. I think a little detour would be in order." Boromir turned to the Uruks. "Bind her hands and bring her. Perhaps Saruman will be able to loosen her tongue."

 

Cords were brought and she was swiftly bound, but before she could be brought forward to Boromir, the moonlight glinted off the charm she wore about her neck and she swore inventively as one of the creatures tore it from her.

 

Boromir took it from the Uruk, his gaze narrowing, then turned his eyes to her again. "Where did you get this?" he demanded. Tanathel remained silent, and Boromir's fist closed on her throat. He lifted her clear of the ground, exerting but a little pressure on her windpipe. "Where? Speak, if you do not wish to die."

 

"King Elessar entrusted it to me to deliver it to Lord Faramir," she choked out.

 

Boromir kept her dangling at arm's length, his own mind whirling. Tanathel saw something close to fear pass through his clear green eyes, but it was swiftly hidden. "And where is King Elessar now?" he barked, tightening his grip just a bit further.

 

Tanathel squirmed, unable to draw a decent breath, nor to get her hands from behind her to stop the deadly pressure. "He's --- dead," she finally managed to croak.

 

Boromir dropped her as though he had been burned. "Bring her," he ordered as he remounted his horse. Aragorn was dead? How could that be? But the proof was there to be seen. Never would Aragorn have let the Evenstar leave him, unless he were dead. "Lord Saruman will wish to hear the details."

 

Tanathel fought back a shudder at the mention of the wizard. But the die was cast, and she had no choice. She would see this through to the end.

 


	8. Realizations

Eryn Lasgalen, formerly Mirkwood Forest

 

Aragorn knelt beside the bathing pool, mind and body numb from the events of the last few days. He was unutterably weary, in both flesh and spirit, and yet he could take no rest. Each time his eyes slipped closed, he was assaulted by the images of his family, torn so violently from his life, indeed from life itself.

 

A tear slipped free and traced its way down his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away. Instead, he dipped his hands into the cool water and scooped it up, splashing his face with it, then slowly removed his leathers and settled into the cool, clear water, allowing some of the filth he had accumulated to be borne away.

 

He had loved his life as a Ranger, had actually toyed with the idea of never claiming the throne in Gondor. But when the moment was upon him, he had not turned from his true destiny, instead embracing it and stepping forward to unite the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.

 

All that had been secondary to his most heartfelt desire. He had tried, oh, how he had tried, to convince Arwen Undomiel, the Evenstar of the Elves, to take the ship across the seas to Valinor, there to forever remember their love, and not be touched by the cruel fate of mortality. She had chosen instead to remain with him, gifting him with her heart, her body, her love, and forsaking the immortality of her people to bind herself to him.

 

Haunted by grief, he stepped from the bath, clothing himself in the garments supplied by Legolas. The newly crowned King of the Greenwood had made certain Aragorn was comfortable in his accommodations, and then tactfully taken his leave to allow his friend time to freshen up and perhaps rest. It had been a very thoughtful gesture on the Elf's part, but Aragorn expected to take no rest. The sights that he had seen upon his flight from Minas Tirith were seared into his eyes and he saw them each and every time he felt himself relax.

 

His people, some dead, some wounded, others in chains for daring to defend their King. His family, his children, broken and lifeless, Arwen, his beautiful gift of love, bearing the sword strokes of the attackers with no pain, battling for revenge for her slain children, never seeing the blow from behind that had taken her so abruptly from his life.

 

Each victim danced before him when he closed his eyes, demanding justice for their deaths. Each one paraded before him, demanding an answer to the one riddle he could not solve. Why? Why had they died? Why had this happened?

 

Such thoughts were not conducive to rest and he carefully blanked his mind, trying desperately to hold out the ghosts that threatened to reappear. Carefully, slowly, he forced his weary body to relax, employing the techniques he had learned living among the Elves of Rivendell to loosen each muscle in turn.

 

Sleep still eluded him. His body had relaxed, but his mind would not. Arwen was everywhere, in the empty space beside him, in his thoughts, in his waking dreams. Each time he reached for her and encountered empty air, the knife in his heart twisted further. His grief was so strong, it was a physical blow. It stole his breath from him, left him feeling bruised and bloodied, left him wishing for an end to the excruciating pain of loss and loneliness.

 

Never again would Arwen wake him with a gentle kiss, nor would he feel her light touch on his face. Never again would he hear her beautiful voice, speaking soft words of love and devotion. Never again would he hear her laughter. It was too much to be borne.

 

His mind chased itself in circles. How had he come to this fate? He had waited so many years for the only one he could truly love, and she had been taken from him too quickly, she and the children she had borne him. Fate had surely cursed him!

 

To be held apart from her for so long, at the whims of her father. To have had to achieve what was nearly impossible for one of the Eldar, and he a mere mortal! And yet there had always been one more condition, one more task that must be done before Aragorn son of Arathorn would be allowed to wed the beautiful Arwen. Always his foster father Elrond had found something lacking, that Arwen could not be his.

 

Then it had happened. He had finally come into his own, faced his destiny, and claimed it. The Ring had been found, and he had helped to destroy it, pitting a hopelessly undermanned company against the very Gates of Mordor to allow Frodo enough time to cast it into the fires of Mount Doom. Finally he had completed the last of the tasks he had been set, and was granted the right to wed his love.

 

It had been bliss. They had been so happy, and never more so than the night Arwen delivered their firstborn, a son. He had been named Eldarion.

 

Unbidden, the images of the carnage rose again before his eyes and he almost cried out at the staggering pain of the realization. Never again would he feel her touch, nor hear her voice, nor play with his children. They were gone, beyond the veil, where he could not in all conscience follow. His people still had need of him.

 

He drew his duty to him like a cloak and wrapped himself in it, but his grief was not to be dismissed so easily. Instinctively, he grasped for the pendant Arwen had given him, the Evenstar that had lain against his breast for so long, and finding it missing was the final stab. Hot tears scalded their way down his cheeks, though his weeping made no sound. It had been necessary, he reassured himself, necessary to send the Evenstar with Tanathel, but the loss of it brought everything into the sharpest focus. His life was in ruins, everyone he had loved gone from him.

 

No, not everyone. He felt strong arms go around his shoulders and wept anew. Legolas knew. The Elf understood what the Man was feeling, far better than anyone realized. In three thousand years, he had seen his share of grief, and for his comfort, Aragorn was grateful.

 

Legolas simply held his friend, the Man he had come to call brother, crooning soft Elvish reassurances as his friend wept himself into oblivion. "Rest, my friend, my brother," he said softly as he gently covered the now exhausted Ranger and left him to his rest.

 

Gimli stood waiting just outside the chamber, concern writ large in his eyes. "Easy, laddie, you look as haunted as he did when ye brought him in," he said softly. "Ye need to rest, if we're to go about helping to put him back where he belongs."

 

"Aye, Gimli, and I shall. But know this." Legolas drew himself to his full height, his gaze off somewhere only he could see. "I will do whatever is necessary to avenge my brother. Though it take every one of my people, though it cost me my life, I *will* see him back on the throne of Gondor where he belongs. And I *will* see justice done to Saruman for this horror he has inflicted. That is my vow."

 

Gimli merely nodded, understanding that the Elf had needed to put voice to his fury. "And we Dwarves will help ye, laddie. Aragorn has no shortage of friends to come to his aid. And *that* is what will bring Saruman down." He had carefully steered the Elf toward his own chamber, and now gave him a gentle push through the opening. "Rest yerself, Elf, this won't be easy. But nothing worth doing ever is."

 


End file.
